


Stake Your Life

by slightlyjillian



Series: Numbers Alternates [2]
Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, mafia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-07
Updated: 2010-04-07
Packaged: 2017-10-08 18:23:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slightlyjillian/pseuds/slightlyjillian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU stand-alone. Nichol's job was to train the new recruits. He didn't expect to learn something from one of <i>them</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stake Your Life

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate possibility within the Numbers 'verse in which Trowa did not move to the city until he was older and is not Three.

"Now you may not have used a knife before. But until you can handle one to my satisfaction, no one is walking up the stairs until you can manage the basics."

Danil Nichol showed his dagger. He did not mention how the blade matched a particularly gruesome scar along his right palm. But while the cut had hurt like a bitch, Nichol still had a future. The guy who let Nichol grab the knife had fishes nibbling his bones.

The pupils Une had given him were a strange bunch. Most were just too eager, acting like they were at some damned community college class and that Nichol couldn't just kill them rather than fail the students from the lessons. He blamed Aretha, Une's right hand. The woman was frightening. Even thinking about her diligent work at Une's command gave Nichol enough material for nightly terrors.

She did have a lovely smile though. It fooled most people.

He remained grateful that she shared the same dark sense of humor. The last he'd seen Aretha the woman had slapped him on the shoulder and declared, "I hear you're telling folks you're Une's _left-hand_." Her laughter never fell short of ringing. "You crack me up, kid. I won't kill you until tomorrow!"

Nichol continued talking. Pointing to places on his torso he indicated fatal strikes and then made a few slashing motions with his hand indicating those cuts that only damaged the opponent.

When he looked out next, he saw the boy Nichol had overlooked in the front row. He stumbled over his words momentarily distracted by the unblinking stare of intense concentration.

"Green," Nichol said. Then when half the class stopped taking notes and raised their hands, he realized he's said the color aloud. He stared at the knife briefly. Then remembering where he'd been in the lecture, Nichol continued.

He kept his eyeline directed to the back walls.

***

"Some self-defense class. So practical."

Nichol nodded at each comment and made sure his lips weren't frowning. _Cows_, he thought. None of them had demonstrated any predisposition for the real work behind the facade of the training. So they wandered out of the classroom door and back to their transportation and kitchen tables and evening television.

His evening was just beginning. He'd seen one of Aretha's lackeys walk past the door a few times near the end of the lecture.

Meaning to pack up his supplies, Nichol nearly dropped everything from his hands when an unexpected voice startled him.

"When do we get past the nonsense, boss?"

Nichol turned, bracing his hands against the desk and saw again the young man with the rather noteworthy green eyes. He'd swear the kid was a hypnotist because the next thing Nichol knew a hand gripped his own and a finger traced a line down the scar tissue.

"Up the stairs?" The young man repeated. "You didn't mean learning mace techniques, did you?"

"No, kid," Nichol regained his composure and reminded himself he was mafia. He'd earned his jobs on talent, although most of his assignments tended toward peaceful infiltration, robbery and safe cracking.

"I'd like to go upstairs with you."

_Is that flirting?_ Nichol shook his head. "Pay your dues like everyone else."

"I'll impress you." The boy tilted his head so that the brown forelock of hair slid over his eyes. "You'll be asking _me_ to work for you."

Then he left and Nichol exhaled. He snatched at the enrollment list looking for some smartass alias. But skimming it twice, his best guess to the kid's identity was one, somewhat familiar, name.

"Trowa Barton."

***

Nichol was ready for the next class, when the chairs were moved to the side and the mat was brought out onto the floor. Practical demonstrations were easy, but Nichol steeled himself further for the devoted attention of the twenty-two year-old youngest son of the Bloom-Barton family.

He'd done his legwork during the day between and, while surprised that Trowa hadn't disguised his real name, became even more bewildered to learn that the Bloom-Bartons had a special relationship to the Numbers. When Romafellar had started blowing whistles, Trowa's family had loyally kept their lips sealed. Only a few of them managed to escape prison time, mostly the younger generation who didn't have the criminal reputations of their parents.

Fostering one of those privileged children into the Numbers made sense. It also irritated Nichol to the core.

He'd made it into the ranks in spite of his family. Thirty-eight still refused to acknowledge him. And while many suspected, no one knew for sure what rift divided the uncle and nephew. Nichol didn't speak of it. Stefan Mihailov considered the younger relative worthless.

"Block my strike like this," Nichol demonstrated. Then he followed through, appreciating the gasp of surprise from the pedestrian woman when her arms actually held him back. One more class and the tutoring was over. He'd report back to Une that they'd had another bad batch and shake the public for potentials again.

"Boss, you've got to have some tricks that are more rough than this."

Nichol flinched, having pleasantly forgotten about Trowa Barton. Once again, the younger man waited until the class had dismissed before approaching.

"Do you want to see?" Nichol asked, begrudgingly.

"Oh yes." The boy's smile was infectious. So when the flush burned across Nichol's cheeks, he had to convince himself that it was only from the exertion.

***

"So why did we end up like this again?" Trowa asked calmly, as if he wasn't on his back. He squirmed to test Nichol's hold and then relented accepting it as sound.

"Strength and agility, kid," Nichol swallowed hard. At some point, he'd worked up a good sweat and his hair was sticking to his skin. He let loose of the other man in order to wipe at his face. They sat side by side on the mat. Trowa actually remained silent. His green eyes losing their intensity briefly as his thoughts wandered from the present.

"Do you think I have a chance?"

"What sort of question is that?" Nichol scoffed lightly. He searched for his water bottle and determined it was too far away.

"It's just that, well, I suppose you're familiar with my family?" After seeing Nichol nod, Trowa continued. "Well, it's not as if I grew up knowing." He tried again. "The whole time we protected the Numbers, but it wasn't as if we were a part of them. It was like protecting someone without ever meeting them. Why did my family do that?"

"Who knows," Nichol said. He'd heard Trowa go on about various subjects before, but they were always peculiar topics loosely connected to whatever they were studying.

Then he chuckled nervously after catching Trowa staring again. The kid had a regrettable magnetism about him, but every option Nichol wanted to consider became rather inappropriate for the mentoring role that he'd assumed. The Numbers often had favorites. Hell, even Une demonstrated that sort of partnership with Aretha. But Une had authority. And Nichol was nothing outside of his allegiance to her. For his part, he couldn't offer Trowa any similar protection if he let the relationship fall out of the professional.

"I'll help you," Nichol said, voice raw. "You'll be so good you can take a damn Number if you wanted one."

***

"Just checking in," Nichol said, trying to look casual while he assessed the condition of his pupil sitting in the car. Trowa had been assigned surveillance a full thirty-six hours earlier. No reprieve. No meals... and it all ended when Trowa fell asleep. Except that he hadn't fallen into dreamland.

Nichol closed the passenger door and shivered briefly in his coat. "Evenings sure do drop the temperatures, huh?" he said.

"I didn't think that anyone was supposed to keep me company," Trowa said, warily. "Don't jeopardize my chances, boss."

"Heh," Nichol tried not to like the nickname. It'd end soon enough, as the title only officially belonged to Thirteen. "This is to impress me, Barton. You've done well enough. Let's go get some food in you."

"What?" Trowa's brow pulled together. "You said forty-eight hours..."

"Yeah, but I actually meant just this long. The other time was just to mislead you." Nichol blew into his hands. "Turn the engine and put some heat in this thing. How did you make it through last night?"

"I had thoughts of you to keep me warm," Trowa chuckled.

"Excuse me?" Nichol retorted.

"Heats me up. Turns me on," Trowa turned in the driver's seat to lean into Nichol's space. "I've had a lot of time to think about us."

"Don't tease me, kid." Nichol's shoulder hit the car door.

"I've behaved _before_, thinking that you were my ticket in." Trowa pushed his fingers into Nichol's hair. "Then I realized you'd let me in regardless. Letting me off at thirty-six hours..." He laughed with his lips far too close not to be a kiss.

"What are you going to think in the morning?" Nichol warned, trying to be responsible between the too fast skipping of his heart. All the good reasons for not pursuing the damn handsome Barton were shrinking under his touch.

"We'll find out soon," Trowa muttered.

***

"These are rather impressive qualities." Une tapped her pen against the report. "Are you sure you're not exaggerating them _under the circumstances_?"

Nichol sighed. He shouldn't have expected that secret to last very long. Chuckling, Aretha sat in a chair to one side of Une's office. The right-hand had her legs swung over the furniture and balanced on top of what had to be an antique table.

"See for yourself," Nichol replied.

"Always so cautious," Une considered. "But that's not like you, to depend on... no, stake your life on someone else. Who is this boy?" She asked the last to Aretha.

"One of the youngest left from the Bloom-Bartons," Aretha said. "He'd been scouting our field trainer for some time before I let him take his chances."

_Some time?_ Nichol knew he couldn't hide his bewilderment, but he subdued it somewhat by resisting the urge to run from the room and throttle answers from his pupil. Lover. He sighed.

"That's how it is." Une closed the file. "Well, I'll accept his nomination. The other Numbers are assembling at the appointed place with their new hopefuls this Thursday."

"Make him one of Eleven's," Aretha encouraged with a strange expression on her face. Nichol understood it soon enough. "But don't think you're off the hook. You still owe me a finder's fee."

***

"What's the point of pitting us against each other in knife fights?" Trowa shook his head. "Just when I think that I understand how this underground world works..."

"Apparently you've missed all the parts where I've tried to impress upon you the honor it is to have been sufficiently talented to participate in this event," Nichol muttered. He didn't go to the Bloom-Barton manor house, so if Trowa wanted to engage in extracurricular activities the boy had to travel to Nichol's modest apartment. While Trowa considered the upcoming fights, Nichol remembered his neglected plants and got out of bed to water them.

"I just stab a bunch of guys and then I'm in?" Trowa crossed his arms behind his head.

Nichol returned to sit on the edge of the bed. "This?" He pointed at his palm. "Was from my initiation battle. They say that if you can snatch the blade from your opponent and win the fight, it's possible to earn your Number that very evening."

"Why didn't you?" Trowa asked, taking Nichol's hand and thumbing the flesh.

Nichol grumbled nonsense briefly, then said, "I wasn't invited to the fight."

"No?" Trowa raised his brows.

"I challenged the winner and Thirteen saw fit not to have me killed for the audacity," Nichol closed his eyes. "He let me have my chance."

"I don't understand." Trowa pulled Nichol down to rest at his side. "How did you not earn a place in that fight?"

"No one would take me as a pupil when a Number disowned me," Nichol explained. "It's like getting shot down before you leave the starting gate."

"You didn't just piss some Number, did you?" Trowa asked. Getting no answer he said, "So explain something to me about Number politics, boss."

"What's your question?" Nichol slurred, drooling onto Trowa's shoulder. His eyelids began to droop with renewed heaviness.

"Who can kill a Number?"

***

Nichol had been permitted to sit next to Eleven given his official relationship to one of the potentials. Staying behind, Aretha joked about the event, "Danya, don't break my Lady's heart by going home with a different man!"

"He shaped up nicely. You weren't wrong," Une spoke her first words after Trowa brought down the last of Five's candidates.

Nichol wanted to say something cool, befitting the extraordinary skills they'd seen that evening. _I helped make this person_, he thought watching the blood soaked sleeve as Trowa lifted his opponent's knife over his own head. The red seemed to flow like a fountain.

The spectators went silent as Thirteen descended the stairs to meet Trowa below.

"I've never seen another man take his wounds with such stoicism," Thirteen stated. His voice carried around those who watched. Nichol knew his internal temperature had spiked and he ran his sweaty palms along his suit pants. Une was too engrossed to scold him.

Trowa only responded by offering the hilt of the dagger.

"What would you like me to do with those you defeated?" Thirteen asked.

Nichol watched as his reckless lover _shrugged_. "Send them to the hospital."

"I see." Thirteen motioned with his hand and the wounded were taken away. Trowa started to turn away, when Thirteen stopped Trowa by speaking. "You don't get off lightly for what you've done, Trowa Barton."

"Excuse me?" Trowa asked. For one terrifying moment, Nichol thought he'd have to jump the barriers and protect the younger idiot.

Thirteen laughed. "Audacity, but I think there's something much more behind your motivation tonight, Three."

Nichol clutched his chest. He wasn't certain if he felt pride or terror. Une did shift in her seat at the announcement. Trowa Barton, after just earning his initiation, was given a Number. Trowa wouldn't be subservient to anyone. Which meant he wasn't assigned as a lackey or a glorified tutor, like Nichol.

And Eleven wasn't well known for sharing.

Even while cradling his injured arm, Trowa appeared tall and powerful under the attention of everyone else. Nichol waited to hear what happened next. Perhaps Une would consider an alliance. Nichol didn't talk on the pillow. Or maybe the relationship was over. Trowa had passed by Nichol.

Thirteen put a finger over his lips. "A reward, I think. Anything that you want, Three. For doing what no one has been able to do before. Ask for it and I'll give it to you even if it's something no one has been allowed before."

Trowa grinned broadly enough no one could miss it. "I want Danil."

***

"You could have asked for money," Nichol grumbled matching pace with Trowa as they walked along the empty sidewalk. "Then you could have bribed Eleven _and_ had enough set by for a better place to live."

Trowa nodded, "Obviously, I chose well." He grabbed for Nichol's hand with his uninjured arm. The other remained bandaged in a sling that Nichol insisted on constructing before leaving the arena. A few of the more social or devious Numbers had wanted to meet Three as soon as Thirteen dismissed the assembly.

"What the hell?" Nichol couldn't feel angry just then. Terrified, possibly. But he kept it all in the same bottle as the giddy sensation he could barely restrain.

"You're already trying to become a strategist for me," Trowa pointed out.

"Eh," Nichol didn't know how to respond as Trowa's eyes still had remnants of their original numbing effect.

"But really, Danya," Trowa said, with a slackening to his smile. "I'm born Bloom-Barton. Our job is to find something to protect."

"Oh yeah," Nichol poked at the younger man. "Well, don't get too cocky. We'll just see who has to bail out who, Boss."


End file.
